


Broken Crown

by ludgerkresnik



Series: Broken Crown [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Drama, Kingdoms, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, War, political corruption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 18:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16435019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ludgerkresnik/pseuds/ludgerkresnik
Summary: "The king has gone mad with power,"Heracles' quiet life had changed when their king had declared war on the kingdom of Azeruth, blaming them for the famine that had struck. What was once a village that had felt free, now felt more of a prison as the soldiers moved in to protect any possible attacks from the other side.His life changes even more as he's called to war.Konstantin had an easy life, one that he sometimes wishes he could get away from. Being the crowned prince was both easy and difficult, with so many expectations. And now, his father had fallen ill, and he's forced to take on duties he's not quite ready to accept.





	Broken Crown

Heracles has lived an easy life, this, he can admit to. While his parents, from the time he was young, had urged him to go to the capital and seek an education to expand on his bright mind, he had refused to. Instead, he was satisfied with living a simple life in a small village where he’s free to do as he pleases so long as the farm was cared for.

There was always a certain freedom of being able to run barefoot on a dirt road, dog at his heels and the sun beating down on him. Heracles had never found himself enviously watching as the guards from the kingdom come to their quaint village--dressed in fancy uniforms of navy and gold. He had always believed they were captive to the constraints of their lives and unable to feel the dirt beneath their feet or the grass tickling their skin.

Despite hardships striking his village, and his family, as the sky darkened and famine hit, Heracles never wants to leave his life. They are far from the bustling capital but they still receive news. In his younger adolescence, he heard whispers of those who go to the capital that their king is gearing up for war blaming the Aezurith Kingdom for their misfortunes; claiming they have cursed them.

“Struck with a sickness,” some of them would say, with hushed voices and going quiet when any of the younger children would inquire.

“The king is going mad with power,” Others would say, and Heracles would never ask for fear of a beating for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

There was an immutable silence that overcame the Elders in his village as soldiers started to be stationed there, as they were at the border with the other kingdom. Within the stonewalls of their churches, now left to become decrepit over time, would they talk among each other about the ones who have been chosen by the gods--marked at birth--to prevent such a horrible war from happening. Heracles would often spy, desperate for answers about why his childhood home is starting to become disrupted and controlled by another power.

It was after he got caught by one of the Elders--whose eyes were filmed over with gray and his face wrinkled and could hardly be seen beneath his long beard and hair, did he understand why they meet in private and so late at night. When he had gone home that night, it had dawned on Heracles that the man had an odd black star shape underneath his eye. Odd place to get a tattoo, he had thought before going to sleep, his cat curled up close to him.

His mother had soon started to force him to cover up the odd marking on his body, it resembling the sun. She told him good, presentable boys don’t run around topless--he’ll never find a wife that way. And Heracles took her word for it. He had been at the eve of his seventeenth birthday, out of his youth and into adulthood.

Heracles had grown accustomed to the presence of soldiers--some who came from lives too comfortable that adjusting to the countryside was too much. At every corner, did he see them, adorned in their cloth and armed with weapons unnatural to the earth. Yet, no force had presented a bigger threat than them.

In the confines of their quaint home, his parents would whisper about those weapons--in the wrong hands, they are evil. Blood only feeds the earth and angers their gods more. Heracles had wondered if they were being too dramatic.

It was one hot summer day that Heracles was out, now nineteen, a basket of the food he had managed to procure to help the village did he see the weaponry put to use. They had been standing center square, most of the village have already gathered around to see what was happening.

When Heracles is able to see who it was, a sickening feeling sets in. It was one of the elders, who was blind but he had taught Heracles how to read, always spoke stories of the olden days--long before the disappearances of the gods. For the longest time, he had believed the old man to be one of the gods.

“This man has committed an atrocious crime against the kingdom, and your King!” The soldier was saying, his voice clear and chilling. Heracles feels his breath catch in his throat. “We have found forbidden texts in his home, and evidence of the use of magic! A most grievous crime.”

No, Heracles had thought as he drops his wicker basket, its contents spilling on the ground. He pushes through the crowd, the soldiers voice loud and echoing.

“For this, he shall be executed! Any last words, old man?” There’s a cheeriness in his mocking tone. This soldiers mother failed to raise him right, Heracles thinks.

Heracles reaches to the front of the crowd--although the elder is blind, he swears he looks right at him. That start shaped tattoo, he realizes, is much more noticeable now. He can’t look away from this old man, panic and adrenaline keeping him frozen in place. There’s a click of the gun, its muzzle pressed into his back, covered with gray and green robes.

“We will return.” His voice is firm, unwavering.

And the gun goes off, the milliseconds feel like hours, and helplessly, Heracles watches him collapse into the dirt ground he used to walk on barefoot, the crimson color of his blood pooling out and staining it.

The burial was done late at night, in private, somewhere in the woods as the soldier who had executed him insisted he lay there in the streets as a reminder of what will happen should they break the law. The next morning, someone had told the soldiers an animal must have dragged him off in the night.

That winter proved to be more difficult as the cold front hit even worse. With it, he watches his mother, who had seemed strong, grow frail. The things she once could do seemed impossible. The village doctor could only do so much, only a quiet apology as she got worse. There were times when his father thought he wasn’t home, he’d hear him beg the doctor, in a hushed voice, to do something, his voice always breaking each time and each time, Heracles wonders where it all gone wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

The war, Heracles hears, is growing worse. They need more soldiers. They are losing. Injured soldiers are walked through his village, bringing with them the heavy silence. Where once winter was joyous, is now a silence of digging graves for those who did not make it. They were all unmarked, known young men just out of their youths who had been too willing to lay down their lives for a king whose mind is no longer there.

That spring, death takes his mother. It had been kind to her, unlike her sickness, as she slipped in the night with one quiet breath. Heracles mourned as his father slowly closes in on himself.

They bury her in the spot she had always loved, just at the edge of the forest, where the fairies call and adventure had awaited them both. Heracles would visit her grave daily, only marked with a simple white cross with a wreath of flowers hanging on it. He would talk to her, tell her about his day and the way things were going.

Late at night, he would hear his father creep out of his room, and down the stairs, the wood creaking as he does so. And Heracles would find him out at the grave, at dawn, passed out with a bottle of alcohol next to him. They would both pretend nothing was wrong, and nothing was happening.

The skies remain dark well into summer, when there’s a sharp knock on their door as Heracles cooks dinner and his father works in the fields, desperate for what little food their crops now provide.

He opens the door. A bespeckled young man stands before him, with youthful blue eyes and a round face, tousled blond hair reminds him of the sun.

“Heracles Karpusi?” He asks, oddly too friendly for one who works for the king.

“Yes…?” Heracles answers, hesitantly. Despite how open this young man seems, he still regards him with a suspicious look and completely blocks the doorway. The soldiers are not to be trusted.

The man fishes out a letter, the Kings insignia on it. It’s musk of perfume is suffocating. “You are being drafted. We need all available young men to fight.” Heracles reluctantly grabs onto the letter, unwilling to take it but the boy lets go of it. “Be at the center at dawn, as we leave then.”

There is no goodbye as Heracles shuts the door.

As he serves dinner, his father quiet in his grief, Heracles ponders on the news. Should he tell him? It would only break his heart more--perhaps he could say his father is sickly and he’s the only child.

“Who was that young man from earlier?” His father breaks the silence and cuts through the racing thoughts. Heracles licks his lips. “You should have invited him in, we raised you better.” Heracles mumbles his agreement. “What did he want?”

“I’m being called to war.” Heracles finally says, quietly. “We leave at the end of the week.”

His father drops his spoon in the bowl, the silver clinking against the glass. The legs of his wooden chair scrape against their floor, and his father retreats to his room for the night.

It’s late at night, when the song bugs are singing and the night is cool, does his father emerge from his room. Heracles is outside, staring at their dark field, barely lit from the dimmed stars and smoking. At the edges of the forest, ghosts call for him. He wants to answer. He remembers how when he was younger, the night air had felt so much warmer and the stars shined bright. His mother would tell him it was because the gods were smiling on them.

Footsteps on the wood causes him to look up.

“I’ve already lost your mother,” His father says, quietly but there’s a crack in his voice. “I can’t lose you too.” Heracles feels something inside of him hurt. “I can’t lose my son too.”

“I can tell them I’m your only son, that I have to stay.”

His father places a leathery hand on his arm, and for once, Heracles realizes just how old his father looks. His hair that once shined is now gray, wrinkles cover once healthy face and his eyes are graying.

“The King has sent his orders.” He says quietly, and gives his arm a squeeze. “We cannot go against it.”

Heracles has lived a comfortable life, in a small house that was always warm and he had not wanted anything else. This is something he did not wish to change, and he knows it has to. There was no fighting fate--and he knows they will die until nobody is left as the old faiths pray for the silent gods to return. His death certificate had been signed the second the young soldier had handed him the letter, as there was no surviving it. Survivors who had remained in their village spoke of powers greater than their weapons, cursing them as devils.

He leans into his father and cries.

* * *

 

Konstantin was born lucky, he understood this from the time he was young. From being pampered by his doting mother, who would often hold him close and stroke his hair, telling him he was a blessing from the gods to his father being lenient with him as he’d get into trouble, excusing it with, “He is young.” and followed it with a laugh.

From running from the servants through halls, naked, to shying away from the beautiful suitors, Konstantin had at some point, found himself wishing that he could be  _anywhere_ but filling in his responsibilities. He was no longer allowed to go out and visit the city, because he had studies, and unlike his cousin who was already training in their military, he had to sit and learn how to be a king.

He would watch, with jealousy, from the colored library window, at the knights below as they trained in the courtyard. There were flurries of bright colored magic, and the sound of metal clashing.  _That’s_  what he’d rather be doing, and his father would assure him that he, too, would soon learn as all kings should fight among their men. Often times, Konstantin didn’t believe him.

His training, as it turned out, was more different. His father had called for a sorcerer, a man who seemed youthful, with almond colored eyes and hair black as night and as long as a woman’s. This man was to train him to use the power he was gifted from the gods.

At first, Konstantin was cocky about it. He laughed it off, saying that someone as small as him could not train him. Within the hour, he was in miserable pain and the man had not even moved a muscle. The man, after that, had very sternly told him not to doubt him nor his abilities.

Almost each night, he would go to bed scratched up and bruised, he was assured not to worry about those injuries--his magic will heal him. Most nights, Konstantin had started to doubt that he could handle his magic as the trees would grow out of control, as he would be more destructive than helpful and his teacher told him not to worry.

He was fairly young when the king of Theladia declared war on them. His father would often go to visit, to try to reason with the other, whose eyes were black with hate. Konstantin would hear stories about how Theladia was not doing well-how badly they were hit with famine.

“So,” He asks his cousin one day, as he lays sprawled out on his bed and his cousin having taken a seat at the desk, an arm flung over the back. “Are you being sent off then?”

Vuk wrinkled his nose. “Likely not.”

“Why?”

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you,” Comes his answer, and Konstain shoots him a dirty look. “I’ll likely be going when you go.”

“I’ll be going?”

Vuk only shrugged.

Just a month after Konstantin had turned eighteen, did his father grow ill. Even as the best healers in their kingdom had come to help him, there was a quiet understanding that he may not survive.

With this knowledge, the young crowned prince, would often retreat to his room. There’s too much yet, for him to take on. He’s not ready yet,  _especially_ , in the time of war where the other king refuses to listen to reason and keeps allowing his people to die.

One late night, as he sits at his desk, staring at the worn, old book the sorcerer had left for him, does a sharp knock at the door greet him. He calls for the person to enter, and doesn’t  _really_ acknowledge their prescence.

“We leave tomorrow,” Vuk says, voice breathless and his face flushed. “Something’s happened at war front, and you’re needed now.”

Konstantin does not sleep that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated!


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